


A Slash of Crimson

by Joules Mer (joulesmer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-23 20:01:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6128458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joulesmer/pseuds/Joules%20Mer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A relationship from Sherlock’s past is revealed in a moment of extreme duress.  Mycroft offers comfort.  John and Greg get a clue there’s another side to the Holmes’ brothers after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Past

After five days of round the clock stakeouts and lab work, they found the suspect splayed on the ground floor of a warehouse with his neck broken, pieces of what had been the attic floor scattered around him.

Greg let out a low whistle as he looked up, a section of the ceiling thirty feet above had completely collapsed under the man’s weight. They’d been following the suspect through south London for hours and the adrenaline that usually accompanied an imminent arrest had his nerves on edge. Scrubbing a hand through his short hair, he wearily holstered his gun. “Alright, let’s get out of here in case more comes down.”

“Wait.” Sherlock spun slowly on the spot, considering, then pointed upwards, “There’s someone up there: another kidnapping.” Without waiting for a reply he made for the stairs, leaving John, Greg and Donovan to chase the swirl of his Belstaff.

There were, surprisingly, several grimy skylights in the attic room. The summer sunshine cut through well enough to reveal a thoroughly rotten floor and a slumped figure on the wrong side of a rather wide gap.

The victim was male, lying on his back with his head turned away from them, an alarming blood stain across the front of his white dress shirt and pooling on the wooden floor. A few feet away, next to the break in the floor, was a very large knife. Donovan’s hand had gone to her radio immediately, querying how long it would take a fire and rescue crew to bring ropes and harnesses. Sherlock was saying something urgently to Greg about the culprit’s obsession with seppuku, when the victim stirred and said, “Sherlock?”

Flopping his head round, the man on the ground was revealed to have short blonde hair and rather attractive features. He coughed weakly, and seemed to be peering at them in confusion.

Beside him, John was aware that Sherlock had stilled entirely. He reached out to put a hand on the detective’s arm, when Sherlock gave a gasp that sounded like, “Victor?”

In one smooth movement, Sherlock shucked off his coat, and before Greg or John could try to hold him back took three running steps towards the edge. There was a crack as a piece of floor broke away as he took off, widening the gap, but still giving him enough purchase to sail over and land on the other side.

Greg swore and Donovan dropped her radio, but Sherlock didn’t so much as look back at them. Instead, he crashed to his knees and said urgently, again, “Victor?”

“Hey, Spock,” The man on the ground reached up and ran a hand along the side of Sherlock’s face, “What happened to your ears?” Sherlock made a choking sound that was almost a laugh and trapped the other man’s hand under his own, pressing it against the side of his face. “You’re really here?” Victor’s confusion and surprise was plain, “How are you here?”

“I was on the case,” Sherlock was breathless, a smile warring with a frown of concern, “but I didn’t know he had _you_.” 

The way Sherlock said _you_ did something odd to John’s insides. Beside him, Greg and Donovan had been shocked into inaction as well. Donovan murmured something under her breath that seemed to start with, “The freak…”

In a rush, Victor said, “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I… I left it badly. You were right, of course.” He took a breath and it gurgled, “You were always bloody right.”

“Hush.” Sherlock took his free hand and ran it briskly through the other man’s hair in a gesture that was shockingly intimate to the audience. “Let me look.” He released the hand against his cheek and deftly unbuttoned the dress shirt. The large rent in the fabric as Sherlock pulled it back to examine the wound made Greg hiss in a breath. The blood stain on the floor had grown as well, indicating a dangerously large volume of blood loss.

Sherlock stilled, then finally looked back to the others. “It’s bad, John.” His voice sounded odd, choked, “What do I do?”

John took two steps forwards, close enough to the edge that he felt Greg grip the back of his jacket in warning. He still couldn’t see clearly, but offered advice anyway, sensing that the detective was on the edge of panic. “Can you apply pressure, Sherlock? Check his breathing as well.”

Sherlock tore at the buttons of his own shirt, undoing them and pulling off the garment.

Victor watched with a pained smile. “Still wander around in sheets?”

Wadding up the cloth, Sherlock replied, “Only when I’m bored.”

“So always, then.” The smile vanished as Sherlock pressed the cloth down firmly on the wound, but returned slightly when he again ran a hand over Victor’s hair. The two men regarded each other with a familiarity that was plain even from some distance away.

Having retrieved her radio, Donovan was having an urgent conversation with someone about a ladder. Greg tugged on John’s jacket, pulling him slightly back from the edge. Leaning in for a quiet word, he asked, “How bad do you think?”

Between the victim’s pallor, the still growing bloodstain, and the gurgling breaths, John bit his lip. “We need to find a way to get him safely back across as quickly as possible.”

Donovan joined the conversation, looked between the two men as she said, “The nearest fire crew are bringing an aluminum ladder. Lightest they have. We can try to put it across while anchoring it on the stairway. They’ll be here in about seven minutes.” She looked past them and frowned. “Do you know who…”

“No.” John looked to Greg, who shrugged, and answered for both of them. “He never mentioned a Victor.”

“Given how they’re getting on over there,” she tilted her chin to indicate they should look, “I find that hard to believe.”

Shirtless, Sherlock had crouched even lower. One hand applying pressure to the wound while the other cupped the man’s cheek. They were speaking to each other, but too softly to be clearly audible. As the others watched, Sherlock seemed to stiffen, then bent and gently brushed his lips against Victor’s.

“Oh my God,” Donovan couldn’t hold in the soft exclamation.

“Oh no,” murmured John, in unison. He had seen what she hadn’t: Victor had stopped breathing. The math flew through his head - six more minutes for the fire crew to arrive, then lugging the ladder up and somehow securing it in place, then bringing the victim across, down and into an ambulance…

Sherlock lay down on the floor next to Victor, propping his head up on one elbow and releasing his hold on the makeshift bandage to instead place his free hand over Victor’s heart.

John tried to say something, but found the words caught in his throat. He sensed the moment Greg and Donovan realised what they were seeing as well. 

Donovan took a step forwards, then froze, and asked under her breath, “Why isn’t he doing CPR?”

Greg spoke up before she could jump to any unfair conclusions, growling, “Because there’s no bloody point.” The pool under Victor had reached the edge and begun to drip to the floor below.

Sherlock didn’t move while they waited for the fire crew. Didn’t move through the whole protracted discussion about how best to anchor one end of the ladder in the stairwell. When he did move it was to utterly ignore the firemen’s warning to wait for a safety rope in favor of picking his way across the perilously balanced ladder. Greg, John and Donovan had retreated to the top of the stairs and watched his approach. There was a slash of crimson across Sherlock’s lips, like some obscene lipstick.

Greg held out a hand, which Sherlock batted aside with a curt, “Victor Trevor, mother in Norfolk,” before he pushed past them and took the stairs three at a time. By the time John reached the ground, Sherlock was already gone.

What the Hell had just happened?


	2. The Future

There was an ambulance waiting by the kerb outside, but it wasn’t going to be able to help. Pulling out his mobile, John reluctantly dashed off a text to a withheld number: _Who was Victor Trevor?_ The use of the past tense would not be missed by Mycroft.

They were in a disused industrial area - no cabs for a mile at least. Ignoring the twinge in his leg, John climbed the stairs and found the fire crew preparing to bring Victor’s body back across the ladder. Greg and Donovan were standing closely together at the top of the stairs, supervising the proceedings. In answer to their unasked question, John volunteered, “Gone. I don’t know where.” Greg’s brow furrowed in concern, so he added. “I texted his brother.” They both knew that was likely to start some measure of tracking, if not outright intervention. 

It took an hour to set up the appropriate ropes, harness the body in place in a rescue basket, and slide it along the ladder to the staircase. The man had been handsome, it was clear. Slim, athletic build, blonde hair, green eyes, pleasant features, middling to late thirties if John had to hazard a guess. Roughly the same age as Sherlock. Clothing and watch indicated a comfortable level of wealth: he looked like a grown up public school boy. Lifting off Sherlock’s abandoned shirt revealed an horrific wound: he must have known immediately that there was little to no chance of saving the victim. Even the usually stalwart Donovan looked slightly ill at the sight.

Plodding down the stairs with the firemen, John tried to keep his clamouring thoughts at bay. For what is was worth, Greg seemed to be having a similar problem as well.

Looking between the two men, Donovan smiled weakly and said, “You go, sir. I’ve got it.

The detective inspector didn’t even bother to ask if she was sure, just waved John towards his car. “Thanks, Sally.”

Fighting with the seatbelt, John finally gave voice to his thoughts, “You’d never heard of that man?”

“No,” Greg cast a glance to the passenger seat before pulling away from the kerb, “He never mentioned anyone in all the time I knew him.”

“Me neither. When we met he implied any sort of relationship wasn’t his ‘area’.” Mycroft’s teasing at the palace had certainly reinforced that assumption. “That didn’t look…” John fumbled for the right word… “casual, did it?”

Greg grunted in agreement, “It didn’t look casual,” he spared another glance at the passenger seat, “or unrequited.”

“Je-sus.” John let out a long breath and slumped further down in his seat. Their first dinner at Angelo’s replaying itself in his mind. How much he’d never bothered to ask after that final _it’s all fine_. How much he’d assumed as a result.

It was a long drive back to Baker Street; the traffic terrible as rush hour had begun in earnest. Finally, they pulled up in front of 221B, but Greg didn’t kill the engine. Instead, he put on the handbrake and twisted in his seat to look at the doctor. “How are you doing, John?”

Surprised by the question, John raised an eyebrow, but answered honestly in spite of himself. “Feel like someone has pulled the rug out, to be honest.” There were deep bags under the doctor’s eyes. A five day long crime spree meant everyone was running on near-empty. Greg couldn’t guess how much sleep he’d had, but suspected that John would have had even less with Sherlock dragging him to the lab between stakeouts. 

There was something else, too, John didn’t look surprised, he looked _shaken_. Not for the first time Greg found himself thinking back to crime scenes, to the look on the doctor’s face as he murmured _amazing_ and _fantastic_ at Sherlock’s deductions. Perhaps keeping Sherlock comfortably pigeonholed as asexual allowed John to avoid his own feelings entirely. Greg had spent the last year wondering if there was something more than friendly camaraderie that allowed John to tolerate Sherlock so well. It looked like he might have been right.

Killing the engine, Greg tilted his head towards the flat. “Come on, let’s hope he’s in there otherwise we’ll have to go out looking.” 

Wearily, John unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed out of the vehicle. With every one of the seventeen steps up to the flat he felt more exhausted, despite the worry for Sherlock making his stomach knot. Opening the front door, his eye was caught by a sleek umbrella propped up against the wall… and an even more unexpected sight on the sofa.

John stopped so abruptly Greg walked into his back.

Mycroft was sitting on the sofa: right hand holding a glass of scotch, left hand buried deeply in his brother’s hair. Sherlock was curled in the foetal position to fit on the sofa, head in his brother’s lap, fast asleep. There was a second glass of scotch abandoned on the coffee table, along with two empty glasses and a mostly full bottle. “John,” Mycroft gave a tight smile and beckoned with his glass, “Inspector, please join us.”

John took a quick step into the room and asked, softly, “Is he…”

“He’s fine, aside from his usual bodily abuse of sleep deprivation and malnutrition while on a case. He was distraught when I found him, but nothing more.” Mycroft carded his fingers through the dark curls. “I was abroad much of Sherlock’s first two years at Cambridge. I hadn’t appreciated their relationship was more than a short lived friendship.”

John licked his lips, uncertainly, “And it was?”

“Clearly. They were at Sidney Sussex together, reading chemistry. Sherlock of course felt the need to shock everyone and turn down Trinity. He spent the first month of the long vacation after second year at the Trevor family estate in Norfolk. Whatever transpired, he never sought out companionship again after that, until yourself Dr. Watson. And he largely threw away a brilliant academic career in his final year. Victor Trevor did not return to Cambridge for Michaelmas, and beyond confirming he was not attempting to contact Sherlock from Australia I didn’t have the means follow up further.”

Greg had pulled the chairs around to face the coffee table, and against his better judgement poured two generous measures of scotch. They were too exhausted to be drinking, but both reached for a glass. Greg looked at Mycroft, really looked. The purported politician had removed his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. There was something about the way Mycroft ran his hands through his brother’s hair that indicated he wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with offering comfort in that manner.

As if reading John’s thought’s Mycroft shook his head, “No, I don’t think years of drug addiction followed from one bad relationship. Sherlock would, eventually, have experimented with drugs to both still and enhance his mind regardless. Perhaps it would have been more measured, though, and not spun so far out of control with someone close to him.” Mycroft looked John up and down, and seemed to judge something worthy because he said, “We should put him to bed or his back will be a nightmare tomorrow. He shouldn’t wake up alone.”

John met Mycroft’s gaze unflinchingly, which was more than most leaders of the free and not-so-free world. “He won’t be.”

Mycroft smiled in a way that looked remarkably close to genuine, then bent over and said firmly, with a shake of his brother’s shoulder, “Sherlock: wake-up.” Sherlock stirred at the noise, blinking open his eyes. There was a visible moment when sleepy confusion gave way to memory and his face seemed to crumple. Mycroft tightened his grip on his brother’s shoulder, pulling him to sit upright as he said, “John’s here. He’s going to take you to bed, alright?”

Sherlock blinked at them with a near scowl on his face, but nodded and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. John threw an arm around the other man and steered the way down the hallway to Sherlock’s bedroom, shutting the door behind them. 

Mycroft reached out and topped up his own glass, then angled the bottle invitingly towards Greg. 

What the hell, thought the DI, already feeling the alcohol after running on near empty for so long. Mycroft topped him up and Greg took another sip. It was heavenly stuff. Nicer than anything John would usually have around. There was a crumpled flash of yellow under the table; Selfridge’s for sure. Mycroft must have nipped in on the way.

Mycroft took another sip and seemed to be lost in thought. With his shirtsleeves rolled up and an atypically casual posture on the small sofa he looked startlingly domestic. He looked, _good_ , Greg realised, to his surprise. In all the years he’d known Mycroft, hanging at the shadowy edges or picking up his brother when he arrived on the scene just a little too high to be ignored, he’d never seen the man actually relax. It suited him well.

Mycroft caught him looking and smiled, a genuine smile, then made Greg choke on his scotch as he said, softly, “See something you like?” When Greg spluttered too much to reply he tilted his head to one side, calculating, and added, “I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?”

Getting his breath back and trying to ignore the burn in his windpipe, Greg said something he never would have under normal circumstances: “And what if I do?” Mycroft gave a smile in reply that bared an incisor. In Greg’s exhausted brain he was dimly aware that what was happening was absurd. His mouth almost felt out of conscious control as he heard himself repeating, “What if I do, Mycroft?” There was something about this version of Mycroft, a man who would rush to comfort his brother and slump on a sofa drinking scotch, that Greg found intriguing.

“Well…” Mycroft swirled his glass, contemplating the colour of the liquid rather than Greg as he said, “You could finish your drink, say some polite goodbyes, text Sergeant Donovan to come collect the car and drop you off near your flat. You’ll buy a pasty from Gregg’s, find your milk has gone off and note from your wife that she wants the divorce finalised as quickly as possible. Then you’ll sleep for a solid twelve hours and spend your day off eating breakfast alone in your neighbourhood cafe and then going for a walk, before doing your laundry and watching television.” 

It was, Greg knew, exactly what would have happened. He ran his eyes over the other man, still sitting relaxedly on the sofa, remembered the fingers buried in Sherlock’s hair shortly before, the countless previous interventions to make sure his brother was all right. There was a light dusting of freckles on Mycroft’s exposed forearm. Suddenly, he realised he wanted to know what the other option could be, as there had been a clear implied choice in Mycroft’s words. “Or?”

Mycroft looked up then, meeting his gaze. “Or you could have another drink. Text Sergeant Donovan to come collect the car. Anthea will be by shortly with some provisions for John and Sherlock’s fridge and a sandwich far better than anything you would find at Gregg’s. Then we’ll take my car back to my house, and I’ll put you to bed in the guest room. You’ll sleep a solid thirteen hours because my guest bed is far superior to yours, and when you wake up I will have breakfast waiting for you.”

This was it: Greg had officially entered the twilight zone. Mycroft Holmes had offered to look after him. And yet… and yet, Greg realised, it wasn’t nearly as out of character as he’d have previously thought. The signs had been there all along: especially in the years before John Watson arrived on the scene. Perhaps with his brother well looked after, Mycroft felt more freedom, more bandwidth, for himself. The carefully collected look on Mycroft’s face was starting to crack. Hardening.

Carefully, deliberately, Greg stood, walked around the small table, and sat next to Mycroft on the sofa. The man smelled of expensive soap and shaving cream and Greg allowed himself to take a deep, appreciative, breath.

Meeting Mycroft’s eyes, Greg held his glass out for another drink to be poured.

For a moment Mycroft looked ever so slightly troubled, “For the record: I didn’t _intend_ to try and seduce you while you’re obviously exhausted and the emotions of the day are running a little high.”

Greg jiggled his glass from side to side, inviting it to be filled. “For the record,” he smiled, “you can offer to look after me any time you want, but it’s especially welcome when I’m exhausted after a rough day.”

The bottle tipped and a measure of scotch poured into his glass, catching the evening summer sunlight. Mycroft topped up his own glass, then clinked it gently against Greg’s in a gesture that carried significance and finality. “I’ll be sure to bear that in mind.”


End file.
